


Merry Christmas, John

by ScarletThread



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Christmas, I'm rating this as Mature as opposed to Explicit because it's very domestic sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Smut, Virgin!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletThread/pseuds/ScarletThread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The warmth and comfort of Christmastime bring Sherlock and John together…in Sherlock’s bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Christmas, John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghastlyshilo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghastlyshilo/gifts).



> This was written over just a few days for my sister as a Christmas present. (Who doesn't like Johnlock smut on Christmas morning, right?) It's a tad wordy and more tender than erotic, but I hope you like it.

Mrs. Hudson was the last to leave, since she had the shortest trip home. That was fortunate, too; as John watched her teeter merrily down the steps to her flat, he doubted she could have made it far past the front door. He chuckled as he shut the door to the flat and headed back into the living room to help Sherlock clean up.

The detective was already plucking up wine glasses and saucers here and there, a distasteful look on his face. He disliked having things, especially dirty things, where they didn't belong; at least, when he wasn't the one who had put them there.

"We'll have to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson next year," John remarked, scooping up a near-empty wine bottle. The contents sloshed lightly around the bottom. "Or she won't even make it down the steps."

Sherlock smirked a bit and made his way to the kitchen with an armful of dishes. John followed, even though there were still some things to pick up. He had noticed Sherlock's silence, and wanted to make sure he was all right. It was Christmas eve, after all, and even though Sherlock wasn't the jolliest of souls, John thought he ought to feel a bit of Christmas cheer.

"Everything all right?" he asked softly as he set the bottles on the counter.

"Yes, fine," Sherlock answered robotically, depositing the dishes and turning to leave. John caught his arm gently and looked into his face. Sherlock stared back, then his eyes softened and he gave in. "I've never liked having company," he said. He shifted his arm and took John's hand. "I'm glad to have you to myself finally."

John smiled at him in agreement. They took a few steps, meaning to get back to cleaning the living room, when something above the doorway caught John's eye. He laughed a bit when he realized what it was. One of their guests, a tipsy Mrs. Hudson most likely, had wrangled a piece of fake mistletoe off a garland and tacked it onto the doorframe.

Sherlock looked up and saw it, too. Then he glanced back down at John, whose eyes were looking deep and mischievous. Before he could inquire as to the best way to take down the gaudy plastic plant, John's lips were on his. He staggered back a few inches; he wasn't used to such blatant affection. Most nights he and John spent the same as always, talking (often arguing) about cases or about various plans. Kisses were few and far between; ardor didn't fit into their lifestyle. But as he felt John's warm lips caress his own, he found himself wondering why they didn't do it more often. He slowly imparted himself to John, their lips and tongues intermingling with mutual tenderness.

Reluctantly John pulled back. "Do you want to..."

"...leave the cleanup 'til tomorrow?" Sherlock leaned in and quickly kissed John again. "Yes," he breathed.

John didn't meet Sherlock's eyes when they pulled away. He kept his gaze down for a moment, then looked into Sherlock's eyes. "Do you want to...?" His eyes flicked toward Sherlock's bedroom.

The detective's heartbeat quickened. This was, of course, an area he was not experienced in. He turned his head and gazed out the window, at the falling snow turning red and yellow and green in the decorative lights. Then he turned back to John and said again, "Yes."

  


When they reached Sherlock's room, John lay the detective down on his bed and kissed him again, deeply and passionately. Sherlock could hardly take it. His hand fitted around John's jaw and ear, pulling him in closer. John's hands made their way over Sherlock's torso, and eventually slid the black jacket over his shoulders. It dropped unnoticed to the floor; they would keep themselves warm by other means.

The jacket was soon joined by John's fuzzy jumper, then his shirt. The two lovers paused as Sherlock regarded the unfamiliar bare skin before him. His hand traced over John's abdomen, his collarbone, finally finding the scars on his shoulder from all those years ago. As his fingertips pressed them softly, Sherlock looked into the doctor's eyes. They were full and shining, but only for a moment before they closed as the two of them kissed again. With Sherlock's hand on his scars and the warmth of his body nearby, John felt protected. Even with the insane adventures and close calls, John always felt safe with Sherlock. He reached out his hand, eyes still closed, and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder. _I'll protect you, too._ He had been keeping Sherlock safe since the day they moved in together. And he would continue, always.

With that tender thought, Sherlock allowed John to remove his shirt and expose his pale skin. But with John's warm hands on his chest, Sherlock didn't feel exposed. It felt just right.

John's lips traveled from Sherlock's lips to his neck, finding the hollow just above his collarbone and causing the detective to moan softly. His head dizzied as he processed the unusual sensation of the man's lips on his skin. Then his breath hitched as John began to gently slide off his trousers. His heart beat fast and strong as the doctor dragged them down his legs and allowed them to join the pile of garments on the hard floor. Then John gradually drew himself over Sherlock, who tentatively helped relieve him of his own trousers and pants.

Sherlock's hand lingered on John's soft hip. He prided himself on remaining composed when faced with nudity or the mention of it, but he felt his skin grow hot in spite of himself. Somehow, when it was John who was naked in front of him, and only the thin cloth of his own boxers between them, his feelings left his control. Desire, an almost unknown feeling to him, prickled his skin and he felt his cock stiffen. John's cock was hard as well; Sherlock felt it as his hand strayed from John's hip. He heard a quiet moan from the doctor as he stroked him lightly. It fascinated him that the two of them could do this to one another: how they could be both strong and fragile in one moment.

As he considered this, Sherlock felt, oddly, a bit of anxiety. He had, after all, never done this before. This was the one area at which he didn't trust himself to excel by instinct. But John, understanding Sherlock's hesitation, leaned down and kissed him again. _I'll protect you._ And Sherlock believed it, a hundred percent.

And so, though his heart was racing, he felt at ease as John carefully removed the last barrier between them: his boxers met the rest of his clothing on the floor. They were equal now. Two people in love, laid bare to one another in the warmth and quiet.

But there still remained a good amount of kissing and touching to be done before they became one. The detective leaned up a bit to meet John's mouth with his, as his doctor's hands made their way down his sturdy torso to his hips. Sherlock's breathing troubled as warm fingers wrapped around him.

"Sherlock," John whispered, his eyes half-closed still. "I didn't even think about it.... Do you have...?" He paused, which gave Sherlock time to reach into his bedside drawer and produce a bottle of lubricant. He normally managed to keep his sex drive turned off and unconsidered, but his body did have needs (it was simple chemistry), and every now and again he had found it necessary to give in. And tonight he was glad to be prepared. He wasn't used to being turned on by someone else, or having someone else to satisfy those needs.

John took the bottle from his hand and squeezed some out. Sherlock gasped as the doctor's slick hand found his cock again and stroked it smoothly. It hardened in his loose grip and John knew the time was near. With his other hand, he gently worked Sherlock's arse. The detective groaned loudly as John tucked a finger inside and moved it carefully. After a minute, when Sherlock was feeling hot and desperate, John withdrew and placed his hands on either side of Sherlock, pulling himself over him and leaning in to whisper softly, "Are you ready?"

Sherlock paused only long enough to appreciate how good it felt to offer himself to someone who, in turn, was offering himself to Sherlock, before kissing his doctor again and whispering back, "Yes, John. Yes."

Carefully, tenderly, John entered Sherlock. The detective breathed in deeply, his eyelids fluttering a bit. He heard John's breathing waver. "All right?" John managed to ask.

"Yes. Completely." It was all, _all_ , right. He and John. It all felt right.

Slowly John began to rock. Sherlock found the rhythm and moved his hips in time. It was like dancing. They moved together as one, hearing the same music and knowing all the right moves, their actions flowing along. John thrust deeper as Sherlock swung his hips harder. The detective groaned when John began driving in faster and faster, until finally John came with a sharp gasp.

Sherlock's arms reached out to catch John's arms as the man suddenly weakened. This being a new world to him, he was again interested by the emotion and consequence contained in this act. It was so much an act of both giving and receiving that neither man controlled anything. They acted as one, and any feeling of dominance in either of them was counteracted by the knowledge that he himself was vulnerable. John, the man who had just taken Sherlock's virginity, now lay trembling in his arms, and Sherlock held him securely.

He lightly stroked the doctor's arm, and once John had regained his breath, he leaned up to kiss him softly and deeply. His eyes half-closed, he whispered, "I love you, John." He had said this before, but never in such a situation. Never had they ever been more equal, laid bare before one another and appealing to each other for solace. Never had they shown their love in such a raw, unquestionably truthful way.

"I love you, too, Sherlock," John whispered back with shaky breath. "I love you so much." And they kissed again, before Sherlock turned and shifted, and situated John underneath him. His hands traveled over his doctor's body again, exploring this new thing, this foreign place that he was now free to roam. His fingertips memorized the dips in his skin around his ribs, the taut tendons in his muscles, the softness of his thighs. And then he reached John's entrance, which he worked with lubricated fingertips. The doctor moaned, and as Sherlock entered him gently, letting out a forceful sigh, it occurred to him that even though he was in the position of power, he really controlled nothing more than John did. As they sank into a slow, smooth rhythm, he realized that this was a mutual effort. John rocked up to meet Sherlock's thrusts, and their consideration for one another's comfort and pleasure as well as their own kept them in perfect balance. Their passion gradually grew, each other's movements becoming stronger at the same moment. Then, with one final hard thrust, Sherlock came, with a loud cry. This time, it was John holding the man in his arms, as the detective recovered from his orgasm, the first time he had felt this sensation entwined in someone else's passion. John's hands clutched Sherlock, and he kissed him on the forehead. Their hearts beat hard, strong and alive.

Minutes later, Sherlock could hear John's heartbeat, more settled now, as he wrapped his arms around the doctor's shoulders from the back. The warmth of their bodies merged, and together they felt comfortable and content. John's hand reached up to hold Sherlock's. Under the thick blanket on a cold winter night, they were together and they were in love.

As his eyelids grew heavy, Sherlock held his doctor closer. Off in the distance, church bells played a Christmas carol. He tipped his head up, his breath warm on his lover's neck, and whispered, "Merry Christmas, John." Then he fell asleep against John's soft skin, the echo of the response, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," fading along with the sound of their hearts beating steadily as one.


End file.
